The world's running over with color,
With whispers, strange fervors and April--
There's a smell in the air as if meadows
Were under our feet.
Spring smiles at the commonest waysides;
But she pours out her heart to the city,
As one woman might to another
Who meet after years...
Restless with color and perfume,
The streets are a riot of blossoms.
What garden could boast of such flowers--
Not Eden itself.
Primroses, pinks and gardenias,
Shame the gray town and its squalor--
Windows are flaming with jonquils;
Fires of gold!
Out of a florist's some pansies
Peer at the crowd, like the faces
Of solemnly mischievous children
Going to bed...
And women--Spring's favorite children--
Frail and phantastically fashioned,
Pass like a race of immortals,
Too radiant for earth.
The pale and the drab are transfigured,
They sing themselves into the sunshine--
Every girl is a lyric,
An urge and a lure.
And, like a challenge of trumpets,
The Spring and its impulse goes through me--
Breezes and flowers and people
Sing in my blood...
Breezes and flowers and people--
And under it all, oh beloved,
Out of the song and the sunshine,
Rises your face!